The woman’s pupils widened, and she sank into a chair, her sea-green eyes darkening, until they were almost black.
“Come here.” She rasped, her voice clawing its way out of her throat. A sickening smile slithered its way onto her face, giving her an almost reptilian appearance.
Draco took a startled step back, horror clouding his eyes as he witnessed her transformation.
The woman glared at him.
“Would you like to know your fate or not?” She spat, her black eyes continuing to expand.
Draco let out a whimper, though he quickly stifled it, and took a hesitant step towards the woman.
She let out a hiss of annoyance and grabbed his arm, her grip like a vise, cold and unforgiving.
Draco jerked back, surprised at the strength and speed at which she had grabbed him, and swallowed his mouth dry.
This woman was much, much more powerful than himself.
The woman let out a laugh at his clear distress, coarse and brittle, before pulling him closer.
“Look at me.” She commanded, and her tone left no room for argument. Draco hesitantly raised his head, his eyes meeting the blackened pits that had become her eyes.
The woman locked eyes with him, her grip tightening, as she stared him down.
The last thing he saw being the cold, dead eyes of a mysterious woman before the world was replaced with suffocating darkness.
Draco was a ghost. A faded memory, floating along as nothing more than a witness to his future.
Images of pain and torture flashed before him, each more gruesome than the last. In some, he was strung up and beaten for the pleasure of Voldemort, in others he was forced to serve the dark lord's closest allies.
But it wasn’t the days of pain. It wasn’t the hours of torture. It wasn’t the freedoms that were snatched from his grasp that bothered him the most.
No.
It was the end.
It was the death of himself that Draco witnessed as a ghost.
But it wasn’t the fact that he died.
That happens to everyone, regardless of their fate, right?
No, it was the WAY he died.
Starved, and lonely in a dungeon.
Cast away, forgotten.
Left to rot because he was no longer useful.
Thrown away because his well of energy had run dry.
If the Death Eaters no longer found you amusing enough to have around, your fate was sealed.
Though Dracos fate had been sealed since before his birth. As had everyone else’s.
But Draco was not everyone else.
He chose to see his fate.
He chose to experience it twice.
He thought he would benefit from being prepared.
He thought he might be able to escape.
He might be able to run away.
To hide from death.
But there is no hiding from death.
You cannot run from fate.
You cannot lock yourself away, never leave the house, for fear of your impending doom, as if simply avoiding the cause of your death will allow you to live forever.
Because death does not wait for you to find it.
Death finds YOU.
There is no way to outwit the force of life.
And though we all are damned, each one of us tethered to the wizarding world with a thin piece of string, we do not know when, or how, the string will snap.
For the thought of death can seem distant, unreal, a mere thought in the dark of night, a worry cured by the soft embrace of a mother.
But it is not fake.
Death is as real as the tousled pale hair of Draco Malfoy, as real as the feeling of the smooth wand clenched tightly in the young boy’s hand.
As the ghost of draco witnesses his end, these same realizations spiral though him.
He drops to his knees in front of the old woman, as he is transported back to the world of the living.
The old woman’s smile hasn’t wavered, and she stares at the small boy in front of her with nothing but contempt.
She lets out another brittle laugh.
“Had enough, boy?” She hissed, pushing draco roughly away form her.
But Draco doesn’t react.
He simply stands, hands the old woman a stack of galleons, and walks out the door, disappearing into the night.
Gone is the hope, and joy that every young child possesses, replaced with a resigned acceptance that the end of his days will come at last.
And though he knows he has years to live, that he can experience his life without the worry of impending doom, he still hangs his head low.
Because what use is life really?
If you know that your life will end, if you know that all of your efforts will be futile, then what is the point of trying?
This is what Draco ponders.
Where he thought he would find relief, he finds nothing but an empty void.
It is then that Draco realizes he has made a mistake.
Draco can never unsee his end.
He can never forget that his life is horrifyingly short.
And therefore, he can never love.
He can never give his heart as a gift, or receive one of his own.
For he knows that no heart is safe in his hands.
For when draco meets his end, so too will the heart he holds close to his chest.
It is this realization that finally breaks him.
For who in their right mind would love the damned?